


Flaxen Hair

by Asharion



Category: Samurai 7
Genre: Adventure, Cliche fantasy themes, Danger, F/M, Healer, Magic, Major character death - Freeform, Romance, Spooky Mystery, forest, wild child - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-20
Updated: 2018-08-20
Packaged: 2019-06-30 09:23:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15748848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Asharion/pseuds/Asharion
Summary: By all rights, Kyuzo should have been dead. The battle for Kanna was over, the flagship smoldering ruins in the deep valley's below.His life is saved by a strange woman of the forest, who tends to the injured samurai. When he has healed enough it is certain his recovery is in order, he finds his injuries taken by magic to the woman that has saved him. She casts him from her care and sends him back to the life he came from.With no purpose left to him after settling a debt owed to Shimada Kambei, Kyuzo returns to the forest seeking answers.





	Flaxen Hair

**Author's Note:**

> A very random story, I stumbled across it not even having remember writing it and it has caught my fancy once again.
> 
> Enjoy the read!

The summer heat had died down as the sun had set, but the humid air still sought to choke the senses. All around, the choking stench of gunpowder and burnt fuel stained the land in a putrid miasma. The aftermath of the great battle left metal shrapnel and the occasional mangled corpse strewn all along the valley, far below and beyond the towering cliffs that supported the fertile lands of Kanna village.

In the darkness of the evergreen forest, a woman looked on with uncertainty. The tree she had come to visit was nothing more than a splintered and partially uprooted trunk, torn asunder by a massive metal beam. Except for the colossal size, it looked quite delicate, twisted in impossible patterns and arching up high, so very high, into the air before swooping back down to bury itself in the ground like a root.

She had completely forgotten about the prayers to be said here, and to mourn the loss of one of her most favored resting grounds, in lieu of the sight before her. More fascinating and frightening than the impossible metal shrapnel around her, the sight of flaxen blond hair had caught her eyes.

His skin was pale, much like her own. Blood was smeared all along his lower lip and jaw, and flecks of dark ash stood out in sharp contrast against his light hair and skin. He lay half hidden in shadow and the dappled light from leaves overhead, his body strewn at an odd and uncomfortable angle. Debris covered his chest and most of his legs.

Logic said he was dead, but something in her instincts screamed warning of the wolf’s head that could still bite.

Bare feet padded quietly over the forest brush, and the soft fabric of a deep green loincloth brushed the ground as she knelt. Artist’s hands reached out and cautiously pressed two fingers to his neck, her own breath held.

At first, there was nothing, and the strangest mingling of both relief and disappointment began to kindle.

Then her hand jerked back of its own accord at the feeling of a light pulse under her fingers, and she sucked in an involuntary breath of shock.

He was still alive.

The woman bit her lip and whined quietly. She could not fathom leaving him be, even if all she could do was make his passage more comfortable. It was not her nature to leave the threads of life and death alone, though often she wondered at the strange draw such situations had over her. From wing-bound insects to wounded deer, hands with the touch of healing soothed over the pain.

Now, it seemed, she would turn her talents over a creature more closely related to her as kin than any she claimed as family.

Very aware of the foreboding feeling hanging in the air that said this moment would irreversibly change her in some way, the child of the woods began the work of freeing him from the debris.

~*~

The dreams made little sense, but always, they left her with a feeling of confusion. Waking up to greet the day with a curious headache, the young woman stretched and yawned widely. Tiny pointed teeth gave her a feral look, at odds with the soft edges of her cheeks and the delicate form of her neck. Her chest was bound in leather decorated in strings of painstakingly collected rocks of minute size and vibrant color, and evenly cut fringe adorned in feathers and tufts of fur. Natural dyes had painted simple designs all along the makeshift top, matching the soft cloth of her green loincloth. A wide shawl of delicately tanned leather was wrapped lazily about broad hips, acting as a sort of skirt.

She felt his gaze even before she looked down to see it. The startling scarlet of his eyes looked up at her unblinkingly, their focus hazy. He said nothing, as he had for the past few weeks while she’d tended his wounds.

The woman secretly suspected that he did not have the strength to.

“You are awake early,” she commented, voice higher-pitched, like the song birds around them, but far more calm. “Will you eat today?”

After a moment of silence, the man simply closed his eyes and sighed, long and heavy. Very slowly his fingers curled into the broad pads of his palms, clenched, shook violently, then relaxed.

She waited until his chin dipped back down onto his chest before dropping down from the tree that had served as her roost for the night. Himself, he was lain carefully propped up on a tree root packed all around with piled dirt and pine needles purposefully shaped into a comfortable ramp. He wore only the black pants he had been found in; his coat and shirt were hung up in the branches overhead, washed but unmended.

She thought maybe his nakedness annoyed him at first, but had since come to the conclusion he was merely disgraced at his own condition. Not being able to move from his barless prison was taxing on the man’s pride, and he still glared when she dared to move his limbs to massage the muscles and flex tired joints to keep him from atrophy.

Like a fawn prancing around a wolf too tired to hurt her, the woman had grown comfortable in his presence.

“If you do not speak, you are going to lose your voice,” she said quietly, crouching nearby to peer intently at him. “I know from experience.”

Red eyes opened to thin slits to regard her, and for the first time, she felt pinned in place by his gaze.

His strength was returning.

Chapped lips parted the barest bit, and she held her breath, waiting in bated silence. The moment hung in the air, teetering on the edge, then fell flat as he only sighed, then let his head fall back against the makeshift pillow of earth, eyes falling shut.

She waited, as if hoping he’d change his mind, but the seconds grew long and her patience ran thin. With a disappointed sigh, the woman pivoted on the balls of her feet to turn away, rose, and walked off into the forest.

 

Some time later she returned, crouching at the man’s feet. He was asleep, and she had long since learned not to be too close when waking him. She tried not to if it could be avoided, for he dearly needed the rest, but sometimes it just couldn’t be helped.

“I brought food,” she announced loudly.

His breathing hitched, and his brows furrowed, but he did not wake.

A finger lightly tapped the sole of his bare foot, and red eyes opened instantly. The confusion and defensiveness quickly faded from his gaze, and he simply looked at her tiredly.

“I brought food,” the woman repeated, then carefully shuffled, still crouched, up to his side. She sat down cross-legged and opened up the parcel of folded leaves that had been tucked under her arm. “Have you ever had tinsel leaf?”

He frowned.

She bit the end of a brilliant orange leaf shaped in the form of an elongated serpent’s tongue, then offered it to him. He stared at the unusual plant part, then turned his gaze to her, still frowning.

“It’s good, it’ll help you heal, too.” The narrowing of his gaze made her feel uneasy, and she quickly withdrew the herb. “Right, ok, you don’t like tinsel leaf. Mushrooms it is, again.”

His sigh was so expressive it nearly made her choke with surprise. He sounded… Disappointed.

“Sick of mushrooms?” she guessed, and smirked at the glance tossed her way. “Good. More motivation for you to eat them. You get strong, then you can hunt your own food.”

She tried to imagine what sort of dry remark he might have said to go along with the very flat look he fixed her with, but he dutifully allowed her to shove the stream-cleaned caps of puffy brown fungus into his mouth. Berries and a pleasingly cool root vegetable followed, and for not the first time, the woman felt as though he were assessing how much to trust her, even as he allowed her care.

As the days continued to pass by in a timeless crawl of the forest, he spent more time awake, more time analyzing his surroundings and his sole company. The animals did not come near him, though he had often seen them following the woman around. Butterflies would willingly perch on her fingertip, deer would not pay her a second glance, and once, a wolf had limped its way into the clearing with her.

She had bound and tended to its leg, and sat with the beast for the better part of the day, ignoring her human charge, before watching the wolf walk off. At the edge of the clearing it looked back over its shoulder, fixing the red-eyed man with its yellow gaze. A snort sounded, and the canine vanished into the shadows.

He was surprised the day she brought meat to him to eat. Rabbit, cooked and smelling sweetly of herbs. The memory of good cooked food made his stomach rumble, and he had listened with private curiosity as she laughed through her accurate assumption of his thoughts, and gave explanation to his unasked question.

“Of course I eat meat. I am not a rabbit, though I do not need so much as the wolf. The forest knows when I hunt, I take what is fair for what I have given.”

When her hands fell on his chest he stiffened, and she paused, frowning at him.

“I am going to change the bandages,” she said quietly. It had been a few days since they’d last been refreshed, on account of his wounds healing well. He could not feel his legs yet, but his fingertips no longer felt so numb and cold. He knew they were not, for the woman often commented how he was too-warm and pondered that he did not seem to be with fever.

She was cool to the touch, pleasantly so, like touching a shallow stream during the heat of the day.

He did not like seeing the bruises scattered all along his destroyed body, or the angry red welts of countless healing bullet holes.

By rights, he should be dead.

Scarlet eyes watched her hands as she calmly removed the sweat and poultice-damped leaves that covered his torso, and he watched as she used a bright red cloth he knew had been cut from his own clothes to wipe his skin clean.

She vanished into the trees, returning a minute later with the same cloth now freshly damp.

His breath hitched as the rag was twisted over him and the cool water washed across his skin. She paused.

“You are feeling again?” she asked uncertainly, frowning at him. “That is good.”

He blinked the haze from his eyes and looked at her, inclining his head without thinking. She blinked.

After a moment, she returned to her work, frequently leaving and returning with a freshly rinsed and dampened cloth.

It startled him when he realized she was favoring her left foot. He wanted to assume it was very recent, but something in his gut said he had simply not actively noticed it until just now.

That thought irritated him.

She crouched down beside him and examined his chest, tilting her head this way and that. Cool fingers gently prodded at the yellow-green skin that had once been a horrendous shade of purple and blue, eliciting a wince from the stoic man. She noticed, and became more ginger in her examinations.

The sigh that escaped her was curiously disappointed.

“I had rather hoped you wouldn’t wake so easily,” she said quietly, staring at his wounds.

He frowned.

“When you leave, do not come back. I will not be here.”

He did not have time to question her words before her palm was placed over his heart, and the strangest feeling spread over the whole of his body. Warmth and coolness in equal measure spread along his veins like adrenaline, energizing his body and making his mind feel both fuzzy and alert.

Contradictions, confusing and bold.

The sensation vanished as quickly as it had come, and all at once, he felt _alive_ again. Sore muscles protested against the instinctive reaction of sitting up in his surprise, red eyes wide.

The skin of his chest was pale and smooth, but for the spattering of numerous scars.

The skin of the woman’s exposed belly was marred in yellowed bruises and angry red welts, and she looked decidedly pale and worn. The light of her eyes was dimmed, though her spirit still shone clear and strong.

Was that how he had looked, all this while?

She was standing and turning to go, walking towards the forest with a faint limp.

Almost absurd in its timing, his thoughts made the belated observation that the wolf from before had entered the clearing with a limp, and left without one.

The hoarse croak of his voice made her stop in her tracks, one foot in the shadow of the trees ahead. Blue eyes turned to look back at him, and he felt as though he were seeing her for the first time.

“Your name,” he repeated, the words thick on his sluggish tongue and sounding foreign and unfamiliar to him.

“Is not for you to know,” she said in an unexpectedly scratchy voice, like she hadn’t spoken in weeks.

Then she turned back to the woods, and stepped into the shadows.

~*~

Kyuzo was a man of his word, and he was pleased to find his rival holding to his own end of their deal. In Kanna village, the blond-haired samurai’s return caused something of a sensation. It was not surprising that he had been considered dead, and there was something both distinctly satisfying and unnerving about retrieving his own blades from the empty grave that had been dug for his unfound corpse.

Shimada Kambei knew of his arrival well before he had made it to the village center, but something about their meeting felt different than before, like there was a disconnection.

For not the first time, Kyuzo noted that Kambei’s eyes were that of a dead man walking. Spiritless and empty, the brown husks did not mirror the lopsided smile to cross the weathered veteran’s mouth.

“You live,” the samurai observed.

Kyuzo did not answer, though he found himself vaguely amused. He had wondered what his rival would have to say upon their meeting. Stating the obvious had not been high on his list of guesses.

“How did you survive?” Kambei asked, his voice oddly softer. The smile dropped from his face, and his eyes looked even more hollow than before. Kyuzo considered.

Deep blue eyes set into cream skin and framed in warm waves of brown hair filled his mind’s eye. Though he had made no promise of secrecy to her, nor been asked to, it _felt_ like a secret.

“Luck.”

Kambei clearly looked like he wanted to ask more, but the conversation stopped as footsteps sounded. Green hair caught the corner of Kyuzo’s gaze, and his expression hardened as he turned to face the doorway.

Katsushiro’s brightly adorned robes were still a size too large for him, but they held a dustier quality, less polished.

Oddly, it suited the boy. He looked somewhat less the spoiled brat that he had joined them as, and in many ways, still was.

War had not made a man of him. Kyuzo did not think it would.

“K-Kyuzo-dono,” the boy gasped, before all but throwing himself at the elder samurai’s feet in shame and apology.

Kyuzo barely heard the words spluttered to him, though some part of him noted with satisfaction there was no request for forgiveness.

_“I take what is fair for what I have given.”_

Her voice echoed in his mind like a whisper, and he frowned, standing immobile, pondering the meaning. They did not seem to apply to this situation, and their surfacing was confusing.

“Get up.”

Katsushiro spluttered, lifting his forehead from the dusty ground to look up at the blond with wide green eyes, a startled deer. Kyuzo narrowed his gaze. Though he loathed to do so, he repeated himself.

“Get _up.”_

The boy clambered to his feet immediately, his fear nearly palpable. Sweat dribbled down his neck.

Kyuzo paced a slow circle around him, taking in the sight of nervous twitches, the proud tilt of the boys’ jaw set against the humbled stance he held, gaze straight ahead. Katsushiro risked a glance to the right, caught Kyuzo’s sharp gaze, and immediately broke contact.

It was clear who was the dominant one, here. He was aware of Kambei watching the two of them with a passive posture that did not hide his intent interest in the situation.

“Leave,” Kyuzo ordered sharply. His voice was still hoarse, and it leant his words a rough, sharper bite than he’d intended.

The boy vanished like the hounds of hell were on his heels.

“When you are ready, I shall be here,” Kambei said calmly. Kyuzo looked away from the door he had watched Katsushiro leave from, and met the elder man’s gaze.  “Recoup your strength.”

The old man wanted the death he was owed.

Kyuzo had been given life he did not deserve.

He blinked slowly.

“Tomorrow.”

Kambei watched the red-garbed samurai turn on his heel and exit the dirt-floored hut.

~*~

Kirara did not make her opinions a secret, nor did any in the village share the slightest understanding of what had passed between the two samurai; the one who stood, and the one who lay dead at his feet.

Kyuzo stared quietly down at the man’s white robes, for the first time stained with color. They had always been so impossibly clean, it was strange and oddly suiting to see them marred now. The whispers followed him through the rest of the day. He dug the grave himself, and was not sure how he felt about being barred from moving the body, though tradition dictated it was not his place to do so to begin with.

Personally, he had always thought those who believed to touch a corpse was the only way in which to touch death itself, and be tainted by it, were foolish.

Stealing the life from another at the other end of a sword did not distance you. If anything, it brought you closer.

He stayed only long enough to stick the blade in the mound of earth and give his silent words of parting to the fallen samurai’s spirit, before turning his back on Kanna.

As was the way of things, now that he was no longer needed, now that the battle was done and they thought themselves safe, the peasants and farmers had turned aside previous camaraderie to distrust and fearful whispers.

At the base of the first slope, Kyuzo decided that he did not wish to return to the city he had come so far away from, where endless shackles still waited to recapture him.

His boots scuffed the bare stone and scattered dust as he turned right, and walked off the path to descend down the nearly vertical cliff dotted with groupings of rocky outcroppings.


End file.
